The Wordplay
by bluekrishna
Summary: Inspired by my recent playthrough of DA2, where no matter how hard I flirted with Fenris, a single mistake stole him from my M!Hawke. Apparently, there are consequences to flirting with everything on two legs. /sigh. Also...DAT VOICE! mmmmm. rated M to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

"Love. What does that even _mean_?" A soft snort accompanied the words. Large hands with scarred knuckles plucked at the frayed edge of her tunic.

"You're asking the wrong girl. Never had much use for that word myself." She felt the corners of her mouth lift as she added, "I like the other 'L' word better."

"Large?" The warm baritone of his voice turned playful. "Limber? Oh, I know. Loquacious."

"No, you lummox."

"I like this game. Lewd?"

"Close."

"Licentious? Lascivious? Lubricant?"

"I barely even know what those mean . . . except for that last, of course."

"Of course." He said, with a magnanimous wave of one hand. A hand that immediately found its way back to the tattered hem to worry at it some more. "How about la-"

"Lust, you stupid man."

"Ah, well, that's just too easy, isn't it?" He smiled at her short laugh. "C'mon, make it a bit challenging, eh?"

"Have I ever been that much of a challenge?" She turned her head to look him in the eye and found her gaze lingering on the lines that had appeared on his brow. Faint, but present. Lines she didn't remember being there three years ago. She searched his face and found more signs of the hardships this man had endured before and since coming to Kirkwall.

Isabella said, "So what brought on all this talk of love?"

"What's a little existential philosophy between friends?" He shrugged, and those worry lines deepened. She couldn't help but notice that while his body had gone rigid and still, those hands wrung even tighter on the edge of her tunic. They were his tell. While he could make his face and voice sound lighthearted or flippant, no matter the circumstance, she need only glance at his hands to see how he really felt.

They flitted and flew, speaking a language of their own with every sweep and gesture. Whether clenched in rage or slicing through the air to illustrate a point, they never stilled.

It made taking his money at diamondback far too easy. Not that she regretted pocketing every single sovereign. Neither did he begrudge her the winnings. She'd never met a man as unconcerned with gold as he, but she figured he had larger worries now. Like this whole Champion thing. He could seem to take it all in stride, but when they were all out and about, she saw how his hands twitched every time the people called to him by that title.

"Do you ever wonder if - if only you had . . . if there had been a path you didn't . . .." His words trailed off. Isabella watched his eyes un-focus and stare into the middle distance. She shifted around on the grass so she could pull him to her. He came willingly and sighed, wrapping those large arms around her waist.

"You really _are_ bothered by something this time, aren't you?" She smiled and planted a kiss on his crown. "Well, rest your head on my ample bosom and tell Auntie Isabella all about it."

That earned her a rumbling laugh that lingered on the still evening air. They lay like that in the silent camp for a long while until Hawke finally said, "I'm plagued by 'what ifs' these days. Too many to count. If I had done this or that, would it all have even happened? And why my actions seem to only take me further away from wh- . . . what I want."

"And what is it you do want, sweetie?"

His silence answered her, though his spine stiffened under her hand. Isabella ran her fingers through the scruff of his beard until he relaxed against her. She said, "Oh, I see, it's not a what. It's a who. Hence all the love talk."

"Six years and I can't . . . I don't-" He lifted his head from her quivering bosom and saw that she was laughing at him. Hawke scowled and scolded, "It's not all that funny. And what if I'm trying to confess my undying love to _you_?"

"Oh, Hawke, I know better than that. And for the record, it_ is_ very funny." She pressed his head back to her breast and continued, "So, who could have caught the Champion's eye, hmm? Let's see, since you like word games and it's my turn since you didn't guess right last time-"

"I knew the word you meant. I was just taking the p-"

"Lean." She took pleasure in the way his breath hitched. Her hands teased along his back, feeling the cut of his muscles under his thin shirt. So brawny, an odd trait in a mage. She massaged his taut flesh, feeling it warm to a startling degree. In her best seductive growl, she said, "Lanky."

"Isabel-," His tone warned. The word cut off with a gasp as her teeth seized the tip of his ear in a nip just this side of hard. Under her hand, his heart started to pound.

She breathed through her teeth and felt him shiver at the hotness of her breath over his sensitive skin. "Long-eared."

He moaned, soft and nearly inaudible. Isabella felt him stir against her hip and smiled a dark smile. She delivered the deathblow while slipping her tongue around the curl of his ear, whispering, "Lyrium."

Hawke rolled his hips into her in an uncontrolled spasm. She giggled as he rolled on top of her, those large, expressive hands making short work of her lacings. The salt-sea air of the Wounded Coast, sweeter than any perfume, rolled over the pair as they spent their passions in the lee of a grassy dune. She breathed deep, watching him toil above her. Just feeling, just_ be_ing. With a fury he normally only showed in battle, Hawke soon had her calling out to the heavens in mindless pleasure.

Sated, Isabella sighed and dropped her head onto his broad chest. He cupped her buttock with affection, drawing her close. She lamented for a moment that she didn't own Hawke's heart. But what would she _do_ with it anyway? Probably break it. There was far too much hurt going around these days for her to want to add to it. Better this pleasant and meaningless diversion.

The afterglow faded. Those hands began their dance again, shifting and moving. They signaled the return of anxiety. Hawke said, "The hell am I going to do, Isabella?"

His wistful tone saddened her. "Has he ever shown interest?"

"You know I'm a shameless flirt."

"You don't say?" She lifted her head and rested her chin upon the back of one of those wandering hands, pinning it. Isabella let her eyebrow curve up in mock disbelief. Hawke rolled his eyes in reply.

"Yeah, well, sometimes even _I_ don't know if I'm being serious or not. I think he thought . . . not."

"And you didn't bother to press suit?"

"Oh, I did. Every opportunity that showed itself. And some that I created for just that purpose."

"You could just pounce on him."

"Oh, yeah, that would go over _so_ well. Another mage pouncing on him. Plus, I rather like where my heart is, thank you. I feel no pressing need to have it ripped out and crushed." He bit his lip, his great glorious golden eyes flicking away from her to the campfire. "I think it's too late anyway."

"The great Hawke giving up so easily? For shame."

"No, seriously, I think . . . I think three years ago, I made a-a mistake." Now he looked down at her with something like guilt and looked away again just as quickly.

With her fingers on his chin, Isabella turned his face back to hers with an understanding smile. She'd been called worse things in her lifetime. And she knew he didn't mean it like that. He didn't regret their dalliances any more than she did. It's just the unforeseen consequences that hurt sometimes, in the most unexpected ways.

Hawke rubbed at his eyes with his free hand and frowned. "And you should have_ seen_ the look on his face during that whole Zevran thing."

"You always did have trouble saying 'no'."

He snorted. "What can I say, I'm impulse driven."

Isabella let a soft laugh escape her. "Doubtless, he would say that makes you even more dangerous an apostate. Still doesn't explain why you think it's too late."

"I can't really explain it myself. It's different now, somehow. He's distant, cold. Sometimes, he looks at me and I can hear him thinking, waiting for me to screw up and show him that I'm just another Danarius." The words, little more than haunting whispers, chilled her. Suddenly, she had an inkling that sometimes Hawke thought himself capable of such. It would be all too easy to fall.

Hawke sighed. "He came to me one night. The night my . . . my mother was killed. I half expected him to start ranting about the evils of blood magic. Don't know what I would have done if he had. But he didn't. He just . . . listened. I wish he'd held me. I wish I dared touch him then. Instead, I'm sure I just made a drunken mess of myself. I don't remember much of that night. But he was gone when I woke."

She made a soft noncommittal noise in her throat, remembering how low all their spirits had been at that time. Leandra, who did her best to mother them all, lost to the horror and bloodshed they couldn't seem to escape. It had taken weeks for Hawke to regain some of his former humor, only to have the death of the Arishok steal it again.

Isabella never did find a way to understand how Hawke could stand the giant qunari, but even she had to admit that she saw the deep and abiding respect the mage held for the Arishok.

Hawke's voice became thick with tension and some other darker emotion she didn't care to name, "I disgust him."

Isabella stilled his shaking hands in hers and kissed those scarred knuckles. "No, Hawke. He wouldn't still be at your heels if you did."

"Don't say it like that. He's not a dog." Sharp. She just kept herself from smiling at his quick defense.

"Tsk. You know what I mean. We trust you. We trust you so much that we do whatever you ask of us without question."

"Ha! Says the woman that ran off with Koslun's book."

"Hey, I brought it back. Anders didn't kill that girl. Merrill smashed her mirror. Aveline finally got laid. Without you, all of that would have turned out very different."

Hawke laughed, tight and restrained. "Especially that last one."

"Yeah, no one else could have pried that stick out of her ass long enough for Donnic to-"

"Alright, alright, I got the point." He grunted and rolled away.

Isabella draped her leg over his naked hip and embraced him from behind. "My point is, I've never seen you give up on something you really wanted. It's not too late to try anyway."

He sounded miserable as he replied, "How?"

"With that pig-headedness you cloak inside your glib and snide remarks." She poked him in the shoulder. "_You_ defeated the qunari. _You_ went into the Deep Roads and came back with treasure enough to make all of Hightown bend over and drop trou to gain your favor. _You_ killed a bloody high dragon. A little matter of walking up to a man and saying, 'I like you. Want to have sex?' should be a cakewalk compared to all that."

He turned onto his back again and spoke, "That's the thing, though. I didn't really do all that because I wanted to. It just sort of . . . happened."

Isabella took in his earnest expression and helpless little shrug and let out a loud guffaw. Laughing loud and hard until her sides ached from the strain of it. Sometime in the middle of it, Hawke joined her. She clutched at sore ribs and wheezed out from between mirth-laden gasps, "It . . . just sort of . . . happened . . .. Priceless!"

That set off another round of riotous laughter until they were left holding each other in the dark, heaving huge breaths, trying to dispel the absurdity of it all. Hawke gulped and managed to say, "I . . . I know. It's ridiculous."

"The fact that . . . all this . . . seems to have . . . happened on accident? Or the whole . . . Fenris thing?" Breathing came easier with conversation.

"Definitely both. Lucky we already cleared this area out this week. All that noise would surely have brought a dozen Tal-Vashoth down on our heads." Hawke shivered as a cold breeze ran through camp. He pulled his shirt and pants back on and offered her the crumpled tunic that had somehow gotten flung to the other side of the fire. Isabella shook the sand out of it and pulled it on over her head.

"Wouldn't _that_ have been fun?"

Hawke peered at her. "Can't tell if that was a sarcastic statement or if you really think fending off marauders in our smallclothes would be fun."

She made a noise that indicated that it could be either and said, "Do you want to head back?"

"No. I mean, not yet. It's nice out here. Quiet, but not . . . silent, like the mansion is now." He settled back on the sand, head pillowed by some felled timber, and pulled a stoppered bottle from his pack. After a long pull, he offered it to her. "Besides, these days I'm finding myself becoming more and more reluctant to return to Kirkwall."

Isabella took it with a grateful smile and reveled in the bitter bite of the rum as it coursed down her parched throat. One, two, three large swallows and she felt it start to take the edge off.

Hawke whistled. "Gives new meaning to the phrase 'drink like a sailor'."

"Don't you just know it." She hummed in amusement and scooted over to his side. He made space so she could lean on the same log.

The mage leaned his head against her hip and whispered, "Thank you."

"Hm? For what?"

"Listening. Not . . . judging."

"Well, sweetie, we all have our talents."

"Sure you don't want to take vows? You'd be a great confessor."

She smacked him on the shoulder. "And be surrounded by those dry old cunts all day? I'd go mad."

"That might just be true. I don't think celibacy would suit." Comfortable silence reigned for a time. Just the quiet crackle of the flames warming their toes.

The pirate caught his eye and grinned with mischief. "Mmmm, lithe."

He groaned, but his answering grin told her that he was going to play. "Mmm, indeed. How bout . . . looooongsword."

"Ha! Those pants don't leave much to the imagination, do they?" She giggled and passed the booze back. "And speaking of pants. Just think of all that _leather_."

Hawke blushed, even as he laughed. "Oh, I'm thinking of it. I'm always thinking of it. And those lips."

She crowed in delighted agreement. "g-Lis-tening!"

"That doesn't count, Isabe-" The playful argument lasted until near daybreak when the pair finally succumbed to an exhausted and drunken sleep.

Neither was aware of the watchful eyes that peered down into their camp from a ridge high above. Or the ears that strained to hear their lengthy conversation, to no avail. The sound echoed in the ravine, becoming distorted to the point of incomprehensible. But he dared go no closer without fear of being discovered. He settled in to wait. And think about everything he'd seen.


	2. Chapter 2

_"Why?" Fenris demanded, pinning the dwarf with a glare._

_Varric shook it off as he always did and tossed back with studied nonchalance, "Why is Hawke spending so much time outside of the city? Or why am I telling you?"_

_The elf bristled, shifting from one foot to the other. In mounting frustration, he crossed his arms over his chest._

_Varric smiled, flashing his teeth in a predatory leer. "Or why does he never take you with him?"_

_Fenris growled and slammed his fist down onto the table, furious beyond words. A voice in the back of his head asked him why he was so upset. He had no answer and that just made him angrier._

_"For that answer, you should ask the man himself. Or better yet, Isabella . . .."_

Hot and chill sensations ran the length of his body in alternating waves as he thought about that snide insinuation. Not really an insinuation, though, since he knew, as most of them knew, how freely Hawke gave his affections. Given that Isabella didn't play the flower of innocence herself, then one could readily assume the natural outcome.

That logic that often had the power to calm him failed him now. It only stoked the fire in his belly until his vision reddened around the edges with it.

And so, he found himself here. Shivering on a cold ridge of rock in the wilderness of the Wounded Coast. Having followed the pair out here with the initial intent of confronting Hawke about his mystifying behavior, he soon found himself stalking them as they laughed, teased one another and generally . . . cavorted.

The casual touches and embraces they shared lanced him with a dozen conflicting emotions until he felt dizzy just trying to sort them. All climbing to a crescendo as Hawke and Isabella started to rut in their makeshift camp. Her pleasure noises filled the dusk air, loud and uninhibited. But that didn't hold a candle to how Hawke's low moans and muttered curses affected the elf.

Fenris tried to block it out; those soft vocalizations that echoed up to him. His heart started to pound, sending waves of hot blood to his extremities. And one extremity in particular. Perched in a cliffside thicket, Fenris tried not to squirm as his pants became unbearably tight in the groinal region. Unbidden, he pictured himself pinned under Hawke, being taken. Or having the man below him, writhing in ecstasy. It made his cock lurch against the leather of his trews. Hearing them, seeing them; it stole his composure with startling swiftness. He felt his balls draw up. Somehow, he managed to turn a moan into a strangled hiss. Thank the Maker they did not hear.

He jerked his hand away from where it crept between his parted thighs as realization hit him. He'd intruded on a private thing , for all that it happened out here in the wild. If someone had the audacity to do the same to him, he would have felt more than justified ripping their innards out. With clarity, came shame. He flushed even harder as they finished, with twin cries of completion. The throbbing between his legs shouted an accusation.

Soft voices poked holes in his guilt-ridden reverie and once again, he strained to capture even a single word. Luck escaped him, as it had a habit of doing. He could growl, frustrated, if he dared to. Isabella burst into a sudden peal of laughter, followed by Hawke joining her. Fenris listened to it fill the air and found himself longing to join them, in the circle of firelight below.

He searched for the word to describe the sharp prickles in his guts; the dropping, heavy sensation on his limbs. _Jealousy_, he was jealous. Of their easy camaraderie, of their sighs and touches. The obvious affection Hawke showed her. Was this love he looked upon? Did Hawke love her? And did she, who never seemed capable, love him?

And, why did that leave him . . . bereft, somehow?

Fenris swallowed hard as he contemplated the confusion in him. By the time the sun rose over the sleeping pair below, he found himself no closer to answers. Instead, sifting through memories, he surprised himself with the amount of regret he unearthed. Doors he closed, opportunities outright dodged because of some fear in him of letting people too close.

He saw, in his mind's eye, how patient Hawke had been, reaching out to a former slave. At the time, the human just seemed nosy and stubborn. Now, Fenris recalled how Hawke, with gentle and boundless inner strength, worked loose the tight, clenched fist the elf made of himself. And things once thought impossible now lay within his grasp: Friendship, respect, pride, even. Pride in what he could bring to the group as a whole. Value.

Hawke _needed_ him. Said as much once upon a time . . ..

_The mage wept; unashamed, full wracking sobs. How much of that could be blamed on the empty bottles that littered the floor of Hawke's bedroom, Fenris couldn't say._

_Taken aback by this open display of emotion, the elf could only sit at the mage's side in awkward silence. Embarrassment flooded him as he felt his own throat close and eyes prickle. What was it about Hawke that strained his control to breaking every time he found himself in the man's company?_

_Arms, muscular and strong despite the piteous trembling, wrapped themselves around Fenris' waist. The human laid his head in the elf's lap, cheek pressed along the tops of both of the warrior's thighs as the mage continued crying._

_At a loss as to what to do with his hands, Fenris looked around in a panic. An unprecedented occurrence; being clutched at like this. Most being too frightened of his odd appearance to even try. Not wishing to be handled like the stock he used to be, he encouraged that._

_"Why? Why her?" Hawke all but wailed. He slid off the bed so he knelt at Fenris' feet, face still buried in the warrior's leather trews. "She never hurt anybody! Maker, why?"_

_Looking down at that dark crown of hair; hearing those cries wrenched at something in Fenris. He laid a hand on Hawke's head and murmured comforting nonsense. A night of firsts; this._

_"You were so right, Fenris. About everything. About mages!" Hawke said with such hateful venom._

_Fenris recoiled from it without thinking. He wondered if that's how he himself sounded. Probably. A strange sort of mirror he looked into. A sour feeling blossomed in his guts. Bitterness had been his long companion, but to hear Hawke speak thus . . .. It felt . . . wrong._

_"Maker, what am I going to tell Carver?" The sobs renewed with tremendous force. Cascading down into gulping, gutteral noises like Hawke might vomit._

_Suddenly, Fenris found himself yanked right down into Hawke's face by his breastplate. Using his arms, the elf kept them both kneeling. For if he had not, he'd surely be sprawled on top of the mage by now. Shocked, he stared into the man's crazed, golden eyes. Grief cast them in a feverish light._

_Hawke spat, "Tear it out of me, Fenris!"_

_Fenris' mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed, "W-what?"_

_"The magic! Jus-just rip it out! Please!" Like a man drowning, Hawke pulled at him, face a desperate rictus._

_Tearing himself loose from the mage, Fenris lunged to his feet. Sputtering, he ran a hand through his own hair. "I-I can't, Hawke."_

_For more reasons than the obvious one, he realized. Moreover, even if it was possible, he _wouldn't_ do it. This epiphany shocked him even more._

_Hawke fell at his feet with a whimper, curling over his knees in abasement. The mage curled his hands around Fenris' ankles and moaned, "I'm no better. Maker save me, how did I ever think I could be better?"_

_Words that flashed through his mind tripped on the way to his mouth. All the ways Hawke had been better. Had shown them all that control could be possible. Not every mage ended up an abomination._

_Words so anathema to his previous state of being that they couldn't be uttered for fear that Fenris would find nothing to believe in behind them. These tenets held his world together, without them he'd fall into the abyss._

_Lips pressed into a grim line, Fenris picked up the sobbing mage and put him to bed. He worked at the wrinkled and soiled clothes Hawke wore until the man lay bare but for his smallclothes. Then came the blanket. Fenris tucked the fabric around the man's figure with care, taking off his gauntlets to do so._

_Through it all, Hawke let himself be manipulated like a doll, eyes clenched shut. Tears rolled down his cheeks still, staining the pillow beneath his head. On impulse, Fenris wiped them away with his thumbs._

_One of Hawke's hands grabbed his wrist, causing him pause. Worried that he somehow hurt Hawke. He'd never seemed so vulnerable. Fenris heard, though it floated on the air as little more than a slurred whisper, "Please."_

_"I can't take your magic from you, Hawke. Even if magic came from an organ, like a heart or a stomach, the results tend to be more or less . . . lethal."_

_Something masquerading as a laugh bubbled out of Hawke's throat, dry and dead. Those molten eyes opened a fraction to regard him. "So?"_

_Again, that feeling of foundations shaking; of vertigo. How had he changed so much? To care whether a single mage, no matter how singular, died. Or that he wanted to die. "I cannot speak of this now."_

_"Why not?"_

_"Because you are clearly not in your right mind." He smiled to take the sting out of the words._

_"Promise me something, Fenris." The mage's eyelids slipped closed once more. "If I ever . . .. Don't hesitate."_

_"Hawke, I-"_

_"Promise!" hissed the only friend Fenris had. "I need this, Fenris. I need you."_

_Sighing, Fenris nodded. "I swear."_

_Not a second later, Hawke drifted off into drunken catatonia, the deep lines of his face relaxing in repose. Without the terror and grief, Fenris almost saw the carefree and jovial man he'd met three years ago. He didn't realize how he'd missed that lightness, that spirit of caprice, until that moment. The world had enough bitter, hardened individuals like himself in it, and not nearly enough laughter._

_What a precious gift Hawke had and how easily it could be lost. Moved by feelings that had no name, Fenris pressed his cheek to Hawke's and whispered, "Maker, may it never come to be."_

Fenris snapped out of the memory with a lurch, almost falling out of his nest as he did. The figures below still had not stirred so he decided to make good his retreat.

No matter that the mage preferred another's company now. Fenris would keep his promise for as long as he could, even if Hawke didn't remember it. Probably didn't recall a thing about that night, from the look in his eye the next day when he met them at the Hanged Man.

A chagrined smile and nod to Fenris the only indication that Hawke acknowledged his presence at the mansion the night before. And the elf stood away from the gathering to try to sort it out, the jumble of relief and disappointment.

Perhaps on that day, Fenris shouldn't have resolved that it would pass, as all things did. And pass him it did, passed him right on by.


	3. Chapter 3

He just couldn't believe that was his hand. His hand holding the knife. A steady _drip-drip_ of bright red drops fell from the tip of it. The sound of them as they plunged to the expanding pool of crimson at his feet seemed so loud, pounding in his ears. All other noises became muffled and _thin _as he focused on watching each bloody pearl descend.

_'I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?' _The memory clamored for attention. Hawke winced as it thrust itself forward, followed by another. Red-blond hair sliding through his fingers as he helped Anders put it to rights after a bad scuffle left the healer with a broken hand and depleted mana. He knew his fellow mage clung to this one vanity when all others had been cast aside. The last luxury he allowed himself. So any opportunity to handle the silken strands, Hawke grabbed with the greed of a child.

Much to Anders' amusement. _"One of these days, you're going to have to stop teasing me like this and make good on all your flirting."_

_"Someday," said he, in memory, having no intention of doing so. Someone else had caught his eye. But that didn't stop the uplifting feeling in his chest as his hands carded the tresses, watching how the hue changed in the sunlight. He'd never seen the like._

Now look at it, the sad, bedraggled mass spread itself over the stained cobblestones, tarnished by the filth of Kirkwall's streets in an instant.

Something rare and beautiful, like the man himself, destroyed. And for what?

How had it all gone so_ wrong_?

Realizing he still held the damn dagger, Hawke flung it away with a short cry of disgust. Numb and panting, he wiped his hand on the leather covering his thigh. Just wiped and wiped, trying to banish the idea that he'd never be clean again. That no matter how hard he scraped and scrubbed, he'd always feel the slick and tacky blood there, in the creases of his skin. See the brown-ish flecks of it in every crevasse on his gauntlet.

A whine in his ear resolved into a voice, speaking to him words he did not wish to hear, now or ever, "-ank you, Hawke. You did the right thing. That murdere-"

"Leave." Hawke almost didn't recognize that low and cold voice as his own. The word 'murderer' swept around the inside of his skull like a scouring wind. Flayed him alive.

" . . . Hawke, but-," stammered Sebastian. Then the man dared, he _dared _put his hand on the mage's shoulder.

Something within Hawke snapped.

He found he suddenly had a handful of Sebastian's face. With a brutal shove, he threw the archer into the nearest wall. Sebastian collided with the brick, crying out in shock and pain. Hawke leapt upon him in an instant, gauntlet wrapped around the man's throat. He hissed, "Leave! Before I rip your throat out myself."

The panic he saw in the archer's eyes felt viscerally satisfying. Sebastian gasped, "But I-I want t-to help!"

Hawke chuffed a bitter laugh. "Now!? _Now, _you want to help? Where the hell were you when this man was elbow-deep in blood and guts saving lives? When he fought for his very soul in the bowels of Darktown? And you have the audacity to condemn him for failing? For being only human? What right do you have? When you did_ nothing! _How did you spend those long evenings when the poor and destitute clamored at his door? When he bled himself dry for them? Hm?"

"Haw-ghn!" Sebastian's words cut off with a choke as the mage squeezed harder. The man's hands tried to break the hold, clawing and clutching, but Hawke didn't relent.

"Praying?" Hawke said with vicious contempt, baring his teeth inches from Sebastian's cheek. "Standing about the Chantry and whining about how confused you were? Yet you felt no qualms about looking down your nose at the rest us for our 'wicked' and 'obscene' ways." The mage's voice transformed into a sing-song mockery of Sebastian's accent, "'Should I stay in the Chantry, Hawke? Or go back to Starkhaven? I'm so indecisive! Tell me how to matter, Hawke! Please!'"

Hawke's other hand swung around to point at the corpse cooling just a few feet away. "_He_ knew how to make a difference! He healed people! Every day, he helped. In hundreds, _thousands _of small ways, he helped. Ten years and more of helping and now all he'll be remembered for is that . . .," The mage waved at the ruin of a Chantry before continuing, "travesty."

"Hawke . . . " came a voice to his right, deep and rolling. Hawke glanced over to meet worried green eyes set in a face he'd longed to touch for as long as he could remember. If it had been anyone else, Hawke would have considered ignoring the warning and strangling the princeling into oblivion. Fenris touched his arm, the skin of his palm cool on his flesh and said, "Let him go, Hawke."

The mage eased up on his grip and heard the archer suck in a huge breath. He tossed the man to his knees and resisted the urge to give him a kick in the rear for good measure. "I've had enough of your sanctimonious hypocrisy, Sebastian Vael. Anders was more of a prince than you'll ever be. Go home. Kirkwall is done with you."

Hawke spun on his heel and strode away from the coughing and retching man. He himself felt a bit like puking. Actually felt the gorge begin to rise. Swallowing back the bile, he tried to gather more air into his lungs. They felt starved of oxygen. Black dots swam before his vision. Just as Hawke began wondering if he was about to pass out, he felt someone's arm come around his waist, supporting his weight.

He looked down onto Fenris' white-haired head and breathed a deep breath. Finally, some semblance of normality restored itself to his perception. The blackness receded, but the trembling did not. He mumbled, "Maker, my hands are shaking."

"I know." came the soft reply.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry." He closed his eyes at the overwhelming regret that washed over him. He didn't even know what he felt sorry for. All of it, he supposed. Everything; Anders, Sebastian. The way he'd screwed up everything. So many mistakes. Not all the blame, not even the majority of it, could be laid at Sebastian's feet. Hawke knew he need only look in a mirror to see the true culprit. He covered his face with his free hand. "I am so, so sorry."

"I know." Fenris said, giving his other hand an awkward pat where it draped over the elf's shoulder.

The soft shuffle of the others around him made him look back and meet their eyes. Aveline and Isabella regarded him with identical solemn expressions. Merrill stared ahead with tear tracks shining on her cheeks, the ghosts of her clan still marching by in her gaze. Only Varric offered him a smile, strained, but still a smile.

The dwarf said, "I could have planted a quarrel in his backside for you, if you wanted. You know, to . . . motivate him."

This startled a laugh out of Hawke, and if it had a desperate edge, the mage let it go uncontested.

Merrill chose that moment to speak, "I can't believe Anders is dead."

Her tone said she couldn't believe Hawke would kill him. He heard it as an accusation, as it should be. Hawke swallowed back a fresh surge of bile. He could hardly believe it himself.

Isabella took her aside and said, "Hush, Kitten."

"But-"

Aveline, her tone gentle and soft, told her, "It's-it's what he wanted."

That silenced the girl. Hawke felt a selfish sort of gladness for that. He had enough guilts and condemnations floating around in his own head without them also flying around outside of it, stinging him like so many bees. After a while, he said, "Let's get to the Gallows. The mages are going to need help."

* * *

_Is it to be today?_

When he saw the abomi-Anders fall, Fenris' heart lurched, twisting into a painful knot in his chest. He watched Hawke's face go from horrified resignation to incandescent rage in the blink of an eye, stealing his breath. When Hawke turned on the prince, murder in every line of his body, Fenris could only watch, frozen in horror.

He thought over the tumult within him, _Maker, is today the day?_

Could he find the strength to do it? The thing he'd dreaded he'd be made to do ever since the promise had been pressed upon him? How he wanted to run from that oath now. The elf's legs twitched in reaction. _Run far and away,_ whispered his mind.

_No! He needs me. If that means he needs me to kill him, then so be it._ He readied himself to do it, but only if he sensed the swell of blood magic, the acrid sulphur stench of the newly possessed. Tense and shaking, he watched the confrontation between archer and mage with a critical eye. The sudden blossoming taste of blood in his mouth told him that he'd chewed his lip through.

Sebastian's face turned an alarming shade of purple. His eyes bugged out a bit as he scratched and scrabbled at Hawke's arm. The mage seemed content enough to crush the life out of the man without magic. The look on Hawke's face more than anything made him finally intervene, not to kill, but to try to calm. Gone was the sarcasm and silliness. Those red-rimmed eyes held only hate. That generous mouth curled with such malice as to put Danarius to shame. In a day of wrongs, that had to be the greatest. That expression did not belong on that face. Ever.

"Hawke." Not since that night has he dared reach out and touch the man. The skin felt fevered under his hand, the muscles jumped and twitched. The mad urge to stroke those muscles into relaxation occurred to him, but he shook it off. Amber-gold eyes locked onto his and the world seemed to lurch under his feet. Beyond and behind the pain and hate, there lived a shame, deep and terrible. Fenris saw that Hawke blamed himself for Anders' actions, for everything. And more.

Regret filled Fenris. And longing. He felt some of this leak into his gaze and saw the hate in Hawke's eyes burst like a poisonous bubble. Then, there came an echo; avid, yearning, reaching, compelling. So clear and strong that Fenris' breath hitched. His mouth opened to tell the mage all the things he felt, all the confusion, all the hopeless wanting. He wanted to tell Hawke of the fear and how it still ruled him. But he proved a coward once again. "Let him go, Hawke."

Sebastian cried out when Hawke flung him to the ground, but Fenris ignored the squalling boy and concentrated on the mage who strode away. He saw how the steps grew ragged and unsure. When the man started to list to one side, Fenris darted forward and grabbed him around the waist. He pulled the man's arm around his shoulders and supported him, though the mage felt lighter than he had any right to be. Thinner, too.

"Maker, my hands are shaking," said Hawke, with a touch of incredulity, like what just happened wouldn't bring a lesser man to his knees.

"I know."

"I'm . . . I'm sorry."

Out of the corner of his vision, he saw the flash of honey-colored eyes. It woke a memory-

_"He reminds me of me. You know, before . . .." Having exhausted their usual repertoire of barbs, it seemed Anders felt like exchanging pleasantries._

_Fenris squinted against the stinging smoke that filled the Hanged Man, and tracked Hawke's path through the crowded room. "Who?"_

_"Don't play coy with me, elf. I've seen the way you look at him." _

_"I have no idea what you're talking about." Denial, his last defense. _

_"Fine. Play silly buggers, if it pleases you." Anders sat back with a sigh and laced his fingers together on top of his head. Fenris' gaze swung to the abomination. He felt the corners of his mouth draw down in a frown. His table companion's amber eyes, though weary, twinkled in amusement. How had he never noticed how close in hue to Hawke's they were? Anders said, with a crooked smile, "I'm just saying. I still remember what it felt like to laugh like that."_

_As though planned as demonstration, said laugh cut through the haze of the bar, filling it to the brim. Contagious, it spread. Even the elf could feel it tugging his lips into a smile._

_"I've heard you laugh, mage." Fenris said, with a wave and an arched brow._

_"Not like that. I think I've forgotten how to." _

_For some reason, this made a wave of sorrow roll through Fenris, touching on shores best left alone. He wished Hawke would hurry with the drinks. A sudden need for numbing libations filled him. He didn't like this . . . unsteadiness. He'd be the last to admit it, but change frightened him. Shifting paradigms, worst of all. Something compelled him to say, "I don't think I ever knew how."_

_"Maybe you just don't remember." Anders said, with a shrug of his black-feathered pauldrons. Then his eyes took on a faraway cast as he mused, "I don't even know when the mirth disappeared. Just woke one day and it was gone. Chased away by all my remorse, maybe. Maybe there's a point where the sins of the past start to crush the dreams of the future . . .."_

"I am so, so sorry." The man leaning on him said. Fenris swallowed at the thought of that knife in Hawke's hand. At the thought of plunging his own hand into Hawke's breast to affect the same sort of 'mercy.'

No, it would never come to pass. Not if he had anything to say about it. "I know."


End file.
